The patter of rain against the roof guided William slowly from sleep. Among his nest of blankets, he shifted, and remembered maybe pushing them off during the night. He may well have dreamed it, along with whatever else he’d dreamed -- he didn’t quite recall -- and so, paid the blankets no more mind.

Yawning an aching yawn, he stretched, and winced at the soreness in his muscles. It was the sort that came after running in his nightmares. From what, he didn’t know; it always slipped from his consciousness the moment he awoke. William wasn’t fully awake yet, anyways.

That is, until movement on the floor made him jolt upright.

Ainsel lay curled on her side, halfway sleeping. She hadn’t even stolen a pillow, and used only her arm to cushion her head.

The sight of her there knocked his usual attention to manners right out of order.

“Ainsel, what the hell?”

She stayed still, and he saw that she’d heard him, as her jaw tightened, like she anticipated a lecture.

“You scared me to death; what are you doing?”

Eyes downcast, she grasped the edge of the bed and pulled herself up to sitting.

“Faeries can sleepwalk, too.”

William took pause; his initial irritation melted away, leaving nervousness, which faded in turn. Her sleepwalking made more sense than her voluntarily wanting to be so close and so vulnerable. In flickering pieces, the nightmares came back to him -- something behind him, his feet thudding on moss as he ran -- and he wondered if she’d had dreams as terrible as his.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked, and was left with a lingering sense that he should not have said it.

“I’m...” Her words trailed off; her breath shuddered. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Either William wasn’t as awake as he thought was, or emotion was muddling his better judgment, for he couldn’t stop himself from doubting her aloud.

“No, you’re not. What caused you to sleepwalk?”

“Why do you care?”

The question was spoken in shaking tones, without a hint of hostility. Again, he stopped, this time since he had to truly think. It gave him the very same sense he’d had when she’d wondered why he didn’t leave her in the storm. And that sense was one he couldn’t name. Taking her in had been the right thing, and he’d been sure that it was obvious why. Was it not obvious why he cared -- that caring was also the right thing?

At last, he gave her what he hoped was a decent answer. “Well, because... I was raised to consider others’ well-being. My mum is a surgeon. My dad is a trauma therapist.”

“But why faeries? Why someone like me?”

Now, William knew for sure that he should not say what he did, but he made no effort to stop himself.

“Someone who is wise... and shows mercy... and has morals and dignity and strength. Why not someone like you?”

Ainsel’s hands came up to cover her face. She sat in silence; William became aware, bit by bit, of the heaviness that grew in the air when he upset her. Whether it was real or imagined, he could not decide.

And yet, he continued.

“You survived something that I know should have killed you. And you wouldn’t have if you hadn’t wanted to persevere. It wasn’t just me who kept you alive.”

At that moment, Ainsel’s clear pain was contagious, for he felt it, too, twisting his stomach and making him shiver as though physically ill. She said nothing; their shared pain interwove until it was the only thing connecting them, binding them together like the caught roots of twin trees.

“What I did was beyond evil. I deserved the attack.” Her voice was hushed not only in volume, but in feeling. She sounded exhausted. Numb.

It turned his blood cold to hear Ainsel call her actions -- whatever they were -- evil. That couldn’t be true. Yes, her appearing so close to Samhain and the equinox meant something that he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge. And yes, he knew that ignoring it for so long had been stupid. But Unseelie or not, if Ainsel had wanted to harm him, he would already be cursed or dead.

“What do you mean?” he said, and it came out in a whisper as well.

“I mean it was bad! Is that simple enough? Do you understand, or should I keep explaining? Because obviously, you don’t know what a mistake is.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

At her burst of anger, he flinched, but her jibes hurt more, lancing sharp as a blade.

“Hasn’t everyone made mistakes?”

The familiar heat of embarrassment reached for his cheeks: was that all he could say?

“They haven’t made this one,” she murmured, and her fury was gone, replaced by a chill that crawled across his skin like spiders.

William hardly dared to ask, yet did anyway: “What one?”

A spectral smile, empty of mirth, danced across her lips. “You think I’m a good person, don’t you?”

“I think you’re trying to be. I’m trying, just like you. Can you tell me what you did?”

“What if a child really suffered because of me? What if two children suffered?”

The last of the wall that held back William’s fear -- not of Ainsel, but for her -- splintered. He leaned down and grasped her hand; she froze, and his heart skipped at how icy it felt. His chill became all-encompassing then, enveloping the room, as if they sat in fog.

“Ainsel? How old were you?”

He almost could not hear her as she murmured, “Thirteen.”

A lump grew in his throat, and he knelt beside her on the floor, where he clasped her hand in both of his. “You were a child yourself.”

“Do you think... if they met me again, they’d hate me?”

It was all he could do to attempt reassurance -- William wasn’t even sure that he wouldn’t make everything doubly worse. “I think they would see who you are now. If it were me, I wouldn’t hate you, no matter what sort of faerie you are.”

Perhaps Ainsel couldn’t reply; perhaps she was too proud or too hurt or too afraid to.

William took the chance and the risk to say, “I don’t know why, but despite all the secrets you keep, I feel like I’ve known you for a very long time.”

Ainsel’s ebon eyes locked on his; unshed tears glistened in their corners and trailed wet smudges down her cheeks. Before he could apologize, or better yet, turn away so she wouldn’t be seen in such a state, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her fingers tightened around the loose folds of his shirt, with her head laid against his chest. William was certain that she could hear the pace of his heartbeat, and he took a breath, striving for calm. She smelled like the soil that dampened under fallen leaves, like wood and lichen and earthy, musky mushrooms. The scents of autumn made him picture wandering a forest alight with the moon’s brilliance through silver fireburst leaves -- not running, not being chased.

The image lasted a precious moment, for he remembered the day that he’d found her bleeding out her life. William held her as though holding her would dispel the memories, until at last, she slid free. Letting go gave him a harsher twinge than disappointment: it was loss. She should be there still, he thought, while he couldn’t bring himself to put that into words. He didn’t see blood when he blinked, and he didn’t hear in his mind her sarcastic venom, but when she pulled back, something was gone. Exactly what, William didn’t know.

There was just one more thing that he had to tell her. “Ainsel. I’m not scared of you.”

Her only response was a slow nod, and together, they stood. Ainsel’s hand remained withdrawn from his, as did her gaze. He supposed it was just as well; what else could he say?

“Should I make us some breakfast?” he asked, hesitant.

She nodded again and, passing by him on her way to the door, made quite careful to avoid touching him. As she did, he let slip another suggestion, straight from his brain to his lips, skipping the common sense department.

“Ainsel? Let’s go out.”

She swerved to face him, cheeks flushed. “Sorry?”

He wanted, for a lightning-hot second, to smack himself for how that had sounded. “Outside. Down... downtown. For shopping.”

In apparent disbelief, and apparent relief, too, she said, “Right. Let’s.”

With that, she rushed to the kitchen. When she did, the room was somehow less full -- not in the physical sense of being alone, but in that she left a void. There had been more he’d wanted to explain, more truths he’d wanted to reveal, and that would just have to wait.

❦❦❦

The clouds had parted ways with the sky once William and Ainsel had reached the shops; sunlight poured cut a gleaming profile against their windows, though the mid-September chill remained. Thus, he wore his winter military coat -- a charcoal shade, collar propped to shield his neck, twin lines of buttons from the collar to the bottom hem. Ainsel must have not minded the cold, at least not today, for instead of a coat, she’d borrowed his cream-colored jumper; he hadn’t worn it in several days now, yet found himself unbothered.

Nor did their not speaking bother him, for he wasn’t keen on saying anything that could upset her outside the safety of his home. They now both wandered the consignment boutique to which he’d lead her; his longtime source for suitably vintage and proper clothing held hope for her as well. In the back of the shop, beside the single fitting room, was a velvet armchair, where he rested with a new novel in hand as he watched her. Two canvas totes sat by his feet, one heavy with books, the other full from their trip to the department store. Ainsel’s basket was already piled with dark colors, most of them black, with the occasional crimson or slate or umber brown. The cost wouldn’t be any trouble; he had told her to ignore price tags, for he wouldn’t have her feeling any more embarrassed or borrowing all of his things.

His gaze flicked upward, then back to his novel, as Ainsel stepped into the fitting room and pulled its curtains shut. Minutes later, there came a rustling of fabric, to which he paid no attention, then a tap on his shoulder, at which he nearly jumped. Ainsel peered out from behind the curtains. She then brushed them aside. Whatever he had expected vanished from his mind; slowly, he lowered his book.

Ainsel looked so different in a dress. It was a rich sable and reached knee-length; the skirt flounced outward, like the dresses of nineteen-fifties America, but the neckline was different -- a high collar, white as bone, and the sleeves capped in the same shade, with a belt in a line around the waist. She resembled a doll, but a haunted one, a play on innocence: equal parts charming and strange. He almost didn’t want to stop looking, until the rational part of his mind snapped into action.

“It suits you,” he said. “How much more time do you need?”

“I am finished. Let me change again and we can return.”

Her reply was just as curt; he didn’t let himself stop and analyze it. Perhaps it was overly polite, and perhaps that covered a hint of disappointment, as if she’d wanted him to say something more, and perhaps he was imagining things that weren’t there.

In silence, their day of shopping ended, and with one more bag hanging from his arm, William lead her home just as such.